


A Self Taught Illusion

by BlackandBlueMagpie



Series: The Sidhe of Dublin Town [3]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Gen, Sidhe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-16
Updated: 2017-12-16
Packaged: 2019-02-15 17:46:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13036242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackandBlueMagpie/pseuds/BlackandBlueMagpie
Summary: The boys’ hands glow.He’s been here every night that Ultan’s been round, sitting in the scant shelter of the alleyway, in this especially dingy area of the city where most people would stay away. Maybe that’s why he’s here. There’s a beat coming from the bar that he rests his back against – dancehall, yet it’s low and faintly threatening, laced to ward off unwanted guests, and he occasionally taps his fingers restlessly against his knees in time, allowing brief glimpses of amber light.The boy, Ultan’s going to keep calling him that, despite the fact he’s probably many years past such a moniker, looks about 16 with overlong dark hair that falls over his eyes in greasy strands. His face is lined with a permeant frown, etched into freckled skin by a lifetime lived in few years. All this, considering, is relatively normal, for a kid sitting out on the street, and easily ignored. It’s his palms that give him away, much as Ultan’s ears betray him, sticking up slightly too high, too pointy. His palms glow softly, like embers of a long forgotten fire, with a soft amber light.





	A Self Taught Illusion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rivendell01](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rivendell01/gifts).



> Name Changes - Ultan is Bahorel, Caolán is Feuilly ^_^

The boys’ hands glow.   
He’s been here every night that Ultan’s been round, sitting in the scant shelter of the alleyway, in this especially dingy area of the city where most people would stay away. Maybe that’s why he’s here. There’s a beat coming from the bar that he rests his back against – dancehall, yet it’s low and faintly threatening, laced to ward off unwanted guests, and he occasionally taps his fingers restlessly against his knees in time, allowing brief glimpses of amber light.  
The boy, Ultan’s going to keep calling him that, despite the fact he’s probably many years past such a moniker, looks about 16 with overlong dark hair that falls over his eyes in greasy strands. His face is lined with a permeant frown, etched into freckled skin by a lifetime lived in few years. All this, considering, is relatively normal, for a kid sitting out on the street, and easily ignored. It’s his palms that give him away, much as Ultan’s ears betray him, sticking up slightly too high, too pointy. His palms glow softly, like embers of a long forgotten fire, with a soft amber light. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen anything like that before, eyes yes but not skin.  
So he approaches, softly treading over with a lightness that really doesn’t fit with his size.  
“Hey kid.” The boy looks up with eyes flecked through with that same amber, Ultan wonders if he can cast glamour’s or not. “You wanna come inside?”  
“No.” He says dryly. “I’m quite happy, sitting here in my puddle.” Ultan snorts, the boys eyes remain impassive.  
“Sarcasm will get you nowhere.”  
“It seems to be working just fine now.” He retorts. Ultan raises a hand to catch a few rain drops.  
“Come on, I’m getting wet even if you’re aquatic.” The boy raises an eyebrow.  
“Why would you think I was aquatic?”   
“Well you seem to love water so much, but then I’ve never seen any water fae with hands like that.” Said hands are immediately dug into the pockets of his coat, safely tucked away out of sight.  
“What hands?” Ultan rolls his eyes, not rising to the remark and instead setting about raising his skin temperature just a little to try and fend off the chill that’s setting in, creeping into the usual red hot of his bones that needs somewhere to escape as it gets pushed out. Small curls of steam rise from his fingertips, the boy watches them closely as the rain begins hissing.   
“Do you want to come inside or not?”  
“Well now, you should’a told me you could do that before.”  
“And ruin the fun of seeing your reaction?” Ultan smirks. The boy pushes himself up using the wall and there’s that glow again, more red now against the bricks.   
“I take your point, I wouldn’t give away my party trick so soon.”   
“I suppose I shouldn’t bother asking then.” The boy slings a rucksack over his shoulder and grins.   
“Oh you’ll find out soon enough, whether I like you or not.” It’s not the most reassuring answer, but Ultan leads him around the corner and through the door anyway, the spriggan doorman barely sparing a glance for the pair. Inside is hot and buzzing, swishing dresses and stamping feet. The usual barman, isn’t on tonight, so Ultan orders drinks from a Bean Sidhe he doesn’t think he recognises, but he’s not exactly great at paying attention.   
“So, I guess we should start with names.” Ultan shrugs as they sit, it’s a tiny tall table in the corner which he supposes affords them some privacy, as much as can be found in such a crowded room.   
“Caolán.” He extends a hand. “You’ll get used to the glowing.”   
“Ultan, same with the ears.” He brushes his hair aside and Caolán gives an appreciative nod.   
“Not bothering with the glamour?” Up close his eyes glint like a cats, with that same deep amber of his hands mixed into the brown that looks almost black in this light.  
“Just no good at them.” He shrugs, leaning back against his chair with his drink. “Is that why your hands are like that still?”  
“Just refuses to go away, stubborn thing.” He traces a pattern over it, and the glow flares a little, his voice is fond. “You’re going to keep asking about it aren’t you?”  
“Well it’s rather unique…”   
“Give me your hand.” Ultan considers it a while. “Oh come on, you’re not scared are ya? I promise I’m not gonna poison you or somethin’.” Ultan snorts, placing his hand on top of Caolán’s, the glow brightens like it’s being stoked, and doesn’t fade even after he withdraws his hand an indeterminable amount of time later. “Now I’m only showing you this so you’ll stop bugging me about it.” Caolán tells him, and it’s like being put under anaesthetic, Ultan imagines, because suddenly the bar is gone. The noise, the smells, the heat and crowds have vanished behind a hall of mirrors, where the mirrors line up perfectly with neat black and white stripes so it’s impossible to tell where one begins and ends. It the centre there’s the pair of them, still holding hands, but Ultan feels if he lets go he might end up lost in a maze of never ending reflections.   
He examines his reflection in one of the mirrors, shifting back and forth to watch how the curves distort first his face then the lines of his shirt, his belt, how his feet expand and contract and he’s utterly certain it was flat before.  
“Did you transport us?” He frowns.  
“See for yourself.” Comes the infuriating response. He’s not sure how exactly, when there’s nothing to suggest anything but them being suddenly in the nearest circus – and he damn well hopes not because he liked the jacket he might have left – so he reaches out a hand toward the waves, watching it grow smaller and smaller until…  
His hand goes through. The room shatters, or to be more precise suddenly rushes away like smoke. He almost expects to land with a bang back on his seat, but instead finds himself in quite the same position as he started in, only with his free hand stretched out toward the wall.   
He drops it to his side.  
“You produce visions?”  
“Illusions, that’s probably more precise. But yes.”   
“And touching it…?” Caolán withdraws his hand and rubs them together convulsively.   
“It’s not real, I can produce the image, that’s easy.” Ultan snorts at how easily he said it. “I can’t actually create real objects through imagination, no one can do that.”  
“He says so nonchalantly after showing me that.” Ultan rubs his face.   
“It simple physics.” Caolán grins. Ultan takes a steadying sip of his drink.  
“Okay, sure. We’ll definitely call science on our party tricks.” Caolán reclines, observing the couples as they mingle and jive. “How’d you end up here?” Ultan asks carefully.  
“You brought me I seem to recall.” Caolán fields.   
“Yeah, because you were sitting in a puddle if I recall. It’s unusual to see a sídhe with no place to go.”   
“Yeah well…” Caolán twists his lips, eyes on the crowd and then slings his bag over his shoulder. “Thanks for the drink.” Ultan pushes himself up just as rapidly as the boy tries to vanish.  
“Hey wait! Where’re you gonna go?!”   
“What’s it matter to you?”   
“I dunno, I think of myself as a decent guy maybe?”   
“Well congratulations, can I go now?” Caolán asks, stalking out of the door, Ultan gives an apologetic shrug to the man standing nearby. When he gets back onto the street Caolán is weighing up his options, ending up sitting back against the wall, exactly where Ultan had found him. Ultan, unperturbed being one of his more prominent traits, sits down next to him, feeling the cold seep in through his trousers from the floor. “Don’t you know when to quit?”  
“I’m told I’m not the best. But you don’t have anywhere to go do you?”  
“I thought we established that.” Caolán says dryly.   
“And you clearly don’t want any help, drinks aside.”  
“I can manage.”  
“Sure. So think of me as your very own radiator.”   
“Radiators don’t talk.” Caolán says wryly.   
“This one does.” Ultan shrugs. Caolán turns away with a huff, those glowing hands tucked under his arm pits. “Talks… And talks and tal-“  
“My parents abandoned me.” The boy says suddenly, and Ultan stops short. “Is that what you wanted to hear?”  
“Well no, I’m not a sadist.”   
“They uh… Just left me at an orphanage. No changeling child just… Nuns and a priest who decided I was the devil and another who said I was a prophet because once I showed them a scene of the Bible. And you’ve got this ten year old whose hands glow and who’s been with you for decades and who well has to be hidden away because he’s not normal and who knows what he’ll do to the other children or what the locals might think about the fact that someone’s grandmother knew this child when they were younger and- There’s talk of magic and the fae but it’s in whispers and no one ever lets me find out for myself.”   
“Are you running?”   
“Since I was old enough to figure out what running was. Tried to steal a chalice, always wondered what the ringing in my ears was but I soon figured that out once I left my finger prints all but stuck to it.” He turns over his hands. “Still, I’d make a much better thief now. And I learnt to wear gloves.”   
“And glamours, the realms, wards-“  
“Reading, hanging around spots like this. Realising why chapel gave me headaches that made it feel like my eyes were burning in their sockets.”   
“You’re self-taught…” Ultan repeats, an edge of amazement tinging his voice.  
“And self-sufficient. I don’t need you going around worrying about me.”   
“But you’re a kid.”  
“In his 60s. I’ve been doing this a long time.” Caolán pushes himself off the wall and up in a fluid but creaking motion. “It was nice to meet you, Ultan.”   
“Wait- My address. No worrying, just friendship. And you know, a radiator should you need one.” He tears a sheet out of his diary. Caolán smiles, that wry never leaving his eyes.   
“You got a bath?” Ultan grins.   
“Only the best.”   
“Alright, friends.” He holds out his hand, Ultan watches the glow swirl beneath his palm. “No tricks.”   
“No I just, you lost your gloves?”  
“A little while back.” The hand is withdrawn and rubbed compulsively. Ultan imagines being without his, slim fitting for dexterity, protective in situations now impossible to avoid in the modern world with its reliance on metal. He examines Caolán’s fingers, pads scarred smooth even now, as they work to keep each other warm. “I’ll find some more.”  
“Take mine.”   
“I can’t do that.” Caolán holds up his hands in an attempt at rejection as Ultan holds out the leather pair.   
“You can, or I’ll keep annoying you. You can give them back once you’ve found your own pair.” Caolán purses his lips, the embers flare as he reaches to take them and slip one onto his hand.   
“Alright, a loan.” The hand is offered again, and this time Ultan takes it. There’s the briefest drop of guard, a brief glimpse of warmth and security and then Caolán turns down the alley way, looking like an ordinary boy, hair lank, face furrowed in a way that says ‘leave me be’, shoulders hunched against the rain. “Until next time.”


End file.
